


After, During, Before

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias
Genre: Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three different times, three different needs, one night never to be repeated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After, During, Before

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Vaznetti, Counteragent and Rheanna for the betaing!

_After_

 

Jack awoke the morning after in bed with a woman who wasn't his own.

Memory brought emotions: vulnerability, bewilderment – and arousal as well, but by far the least of the three. He realized almost immediately that he'd been set up. This plan had been hatched long before he arrived, and its execution had been flawless. He hadn't even resisted, spiraling down perfectly into the trap.

Opening his eyes, he saw Emily sprawled in the bed beside him – on her belly, arms tucked up under her pillow as if to fluff it beneath her head. The sheet was tugged down far enough that her entire back was exposed; her skin was freckled, gold on rose, and Jack remembered the way his hands could span her waist. Her lavender-sharp scent. The tiny kittenish sounds she made when he –

No. His body was responding to memory now, not to cold fact. Jack had to remove himself from this situation, immediately; he would analyze this later, when he had the time and space to do so. Not to mention that he would analyze himself, ask what in the hell he could possibly have been thinking.

Quickly, he slipped from bed; his clothing had been neatly folded in a chair. Jack wondered when that had happened, and he realized that Emily had not been the one to do it. To stand there and look at them both, naked in the same bed, and simply tuck Jack's socks in his shoes took a kind of calculation Jack knew he did not possess.

In later years, he would often think of this as the first moment he had ever realized how little he understood Arvin Sloane.

Emily did not wake as Jack dressed. He was grateful for that. Jack possessed enough self-knowledge to be aware that he was not a man with extraordinary social grace; he'd felt himself at a loss in far less unusual situations than this. In the end, he knew, silence would be the kindest thing he had to offer her; she had been tender enough with him, last night, for him to feel that she deserved kindness.

He turned the doorknob, taking his time so that the tumblers barely made a sound, and stepped into the hallway. The scent of coffee filled the air. As Jack walked into the front room, he saw Arvin, sitting in his easy chair, swaddled in a deep blue bathrobe. Their eyes met over the rim of the mug, and then Arvin smiled.

"Almost seven a.m., Jack. For you, that's sleeping in." Arvin uncrossed his legs and stood up, gesturing toward the kitchen. "You could probably use a cup. I was worried you'd be hung over."

"I'm not." This was a lie, but the pain stabbing at his temples was a minor concern, all things considered. "I'm leaving."

"Don't. Not like this." Arvin set the coffee down and came close – closer than he would have a day ago. "We should talk about last night."

There was only one thing to say. "You set me up."

"Yes." The raised eyebrow seemed to make this all a joke, one to which Jack suspected himself the punch line. "For your own good."

Jack could have struck him. "How can you possibly –"

"Jack. Listen to me." And Arvin lay his hand over Jack's wrist.

More than anything, Jack wanted to throw off that touch. But last night he had allowed it – had welcomed it, and more – and because of that, he could not reject it now without admitting weakness. Arvin wove his traps well. Jack breathed in deeply, but remained still and said nothing.

Arvin spoke with a softness that Jack once thought belonged only to Emily. "Yesterday was the anniversary of Laura's accident. Emily and I didn't say anything to you, but we knew."

No point in denying that the anniversary had been weighing on Jack as well. The copious amounts of Beaujolais he'd consumed last night served as his testimony.

"Ever since they let you out –" Arvin didn't speak the word prison, for which Jack refused to feel grateful. His hands settled on Jack's shoulders. "You've been tearing yourself apart. Do you think your friends don't see? That we don't want to help you?"

Jack didn't know whether this had more to do with Emily or Arvin. He had a suspicion that the more comfortable answer was the wrong one.

The odd smile on Arvin's face began to fade, just slightly. "I knew you'd be confused today, but I never meant to hurt you. I have, haven't I?"

"Wait. Just wait." Jack breathed in deeply, trying to find a gentler way of thinking about what had happened, for the Sloanes' sake if not his own. Memories from his night in the Sloanes' marriage bed swirled together in a hallucinogenic, wine-tinted haze – but single moments began to coalesce. Emily's kisses, deep and sweet, lulling him into a sense of safety and welcome. Arvin's gentle smile accepting everything, even as Jack undressed his wife. Jack's own relief at finally making love again, and in a way that could have nothing to do with his memories of – that woman.

"Take as long as you need," Arvin said, and his hand tightened slightly upon Jack's arm. This made Jack decide to take no more time at all. Slowly, working not to betray his disquiet, Jack extracted his wrist, reclaiming it at last.

"There's no point in discussing -- what happened." That was as close as Jack would ever come to naming it. "But you and Emily planned this together."

"A husband and wife do discuss these things." Did they? That wasn't his experience. Then again, by now, Jack knew better than to assume he knew a damn thing about marriage; he'd spent ten years in an elaborate charade that probably bore no resemblance to reality. Arvin studied his face, understanding beginning to dawn in his eyes. "You feel as though we manipulated you."

"Didn't you?"

"That doesn't mean that we weren't telling you the truth. In some ways, Emily and I have never been more honest with you than we were last night. I think, down deep, you know that."

Manipulation as love: That had never made sense to Jack before, but it began to thereafter. He took a few deep breaths, weighing the words, absorbing them. Arvin remained near, but he dropped his eyes from Jack's face – not in shame (Arvin didn't know shame, and Jack had learned that long before last night) but to give Jack some measure of privacy, the chance to consider this without worrying about what his face might give away.

"I didn't want – that." The only response was a raised eyebrow. "I'm hardly naïve. I know people do these things. But something like this –"

"—can be meant in kindness. Even this. You see it now, don't you, Jack?"

"Yes." Jack did not feel at ease so much as he felt he had given up. "I do."

When it came down to it, neither Emily nor Arvin's motives mattered the most. In this particular situation, three people had all given their consent – and for all the wine he'd drunk, Jack knew he had not been incapable of making decisions.

He had chosen to do this. But he didn't understand why. This wasn't something he'd fantasized about or even imagined as possible, not ever.

The memory of those first kisses – Emily to begin with, and then, a few minutes later, Arvin – they flared in Jack's mind, as fleeting as match-strikes. What he remembered within himself was not arousal, nor curiosity, nor even the need for comfort. No, it was simpler than that: He had been frightened. Jack Bristow had kept his calm with a gun pointed to his head, but with Emily and Arvin so close to him, he had been afraid. After months in jail, not knowing if he'd ever see his daughter again, he'd sworn nothing could have the power to frighten him after that, not ever. But the sexual invitation – no, the mere closeness of two people who understood him – that had awakened something close to terror.

With humor too black to provoke a smile, Jack realized that the main reason he'd gone to bed with them both was to prove he wasn't scared. Instead, he'd proved how much fear was still his master.

As if sensing that Jack had come to some conclusion and moved past blame, Arvin smiled. "Now have some coffee. Running out without saying goodbye to Emily – rather bourgeois, don't you think?"

Jack did not care about being bourgeois. "I have to go. Tell Emily that – that I understand. But I can't stay here."

"Jack –"

"Sydney will come home soon." Her friend's mother probably wouldn't bring her back from the slumber party until almost lunchtime, but Jack saw no need for accuracy. "I have to be there. And I have to be ready."

"I understand." The smile crinkled the corners of Arvin's eyes. "Go. I'll say your farewells for you."

Retrieving the jacket that he'd hung up the night before, Jack walked quickly to the door. Arvin, mug again in hand, followed, seeing his guest out. As Jack put his hand on the knob, their eyes met, and for the first and only time, Jack felt a strange sense of loss.

"We'll see you again soon." Arvin's invitation was as warm as sunlight. "The how and why – that's up to you."

Jack could have hinted that he might, someday, consider it. For a few seconds, the image of it hung in his mind, more tempting than humiliating. But only for a few seconds.

There was only one way to deal with this. Jack took a deep breath. "It never happened."

Arvin closed and opened his eyes, too slowly for a blink. Before either of them could say anything else, Jack hurried down the walk, breathing in the cool morning air wet with dew.

In the years that followed, he never asked himself what it had all meant, never doubted that he had been right to refuse the invitation to return. The friendship between him and the Sloanes was already in the process of changing, before that night ever began; Arvin himself was changing, and the greater distance between them and Jack was therefore inevitable. And Jack became far better at confronting his fear without letting it control him, better than most people ever are or should be.

More simply, it was easier – better – for Jack to live by what he had told Arvin that day, and so he always did. Whenever a memory floated up, threatening to distract him, Jack pushed it down with the same simple thought:

It never happened.

 

**

_During_

 

Emily took Jack's glass from his hands, ignoring the trembling in her fingers. She could not have said if that was from fear or excitement; she liked not knowing. Analyzing people and motives – it always felt so burdensome. It was better to live in the moment, best to take people on faith. Trust mattered more than anything else, in the end.

And what she was about to do with Jack Bristow was an expression of trust – in her husband, in Jack, even in herself.

"I'm sorry," Jack said. His head was bowed, as if it were too heavy for him to hold upright. "I didn't mean to –"

"It's all right." Emily brushed her fingertips across his brow, then combed through his curly hair. Behind him, she could see Arvin putting his hands on Jack's back – offering support, nothing more. Not yet. If Jack even noticed, he gave no sign.

He was a broken man because he had lost his love; maybe love would put him back together again.

Jack needs someone, Emily thought. If she could think of this as something she was doing for Jack, something that would help him, then it would all be so easy. God knew he needed help these days. She wondered if she were the first woman to touch him since Laura died, and thought she probably was.

"You don't have to apologize to us." Arvin's voice sent thrills through Emily, the echoes of memory; she recognized that note, what it promised. Jack didn't and couldn't know. "Not for anything, not ever."

Jack shook his head, and Emily wondered if he were denying Arvin's acceptance or denying that he could need it. "I can't do this. Fall apart."

Six months in solitary confinement. What must that have been like? She didn't know what trumped-up charges landed him in CIA confinement – Arvin bent the rules to tell her things, but not that much – only that he was completely alone. She couldn't imagine spending even a single day completely alone. Emily only knew that the Jack Bristow with her tonight was a gray, sharp-edged shadow of the man she knew before. Maybe she could bring him back to life. The idea reverberated in her, exciting and a little frightening all at once.

"You won't fall apart," Emily whispered. "You're strong."

"You can relax, Jack." Arvin's face was near the back of Jack's neck; Emily wondered if Jack could feel his breath against his skin. "For tonight, let it go. You're with friends. It's all right to let go."

Jack breathed in and out, slow and deep, and empathy pushed Emily past the final barrier in her mind. She closed her eyes and leaned forward, gradually, so that their lips touched. He didn't respond to that, nor to her second, feather-light kiss.

But when she kissed him again – more firmly this time – Jack kissed her back.

No sooner had their lips parted than she felt Jack tense; her cheeks flushed warm, and apologies bubbled up to her lips like champagne foam (_don't know what I was thinking got carried away the wine Arvin knows that didn't mean anything_) – but Jack put one hand on her mouth, stilling anything she might have said. He studied her so intently that her heartbeat quickened, hummingbird-fast.

Though Jack never turned his head from her, Emily knew he had registered the fact that Arvin's hands still rested on his shoulder, that his chest was now pressed against Jack's back. The taboo they were about to break seemed wound around them, present and yet fragile, like a lacy bit of lingerie designed only to be torn away.

Maybe you aren't doing this for Jack, Emily thought dazedly as he took her face in one of his hands and leaned toward her again. Maybe you're doing it for yourself.

For the next few minutes, that was the only answer she needed – the only answer that her mind could devise, clouded as it was by desire. Jack had big hands (slipping beneath her sweater, tugging at her skirt), and he kissed her so hard she could feel her lips already beginning to swell, and it was unbelievably exhilarating to know a new man's touch after so many years.

And she didn't have to give up Arvin – he was with her, part of this, trading chances to kiss her with Jack, circling behind her to hold her arms back as Jack caressed her breasts, careful enough to unclasp her gold chain before they all got carried away. How many women ever had a chance like this? Two men loving her, one the love of her life and the other simultaneously a trusted friend and a dangerous stranger – both of them touching her, kissing her, totally devoted to her.

By the time Emily was all but naked – only her beige silk panties remained, and Jack's fingers had dipped beneath the silk already – she felt as confident and powerful as she had in months, maybe years. Certainly since before –

\-- _before Italy,_ she told herself, refusing to give her pain a name –

\-- and at last she was beyond all her doubts.

She took each man by one hand and pulled them all to their feet; in the hall mirror she could glimpse herself, gold curls halfway down her back, panties almost invisible in the dim light. Jack and Arvin seemed like twin shadows, before-and-after, surrounding her and following her as she backed toward the bedroom. Emily knew she was smiling and even felt as though she could laugh from sheer joy. For the first time in months, for the first time since – since Italy – she felt like a real woman again.

They all tumbled onto the bed together, and Emily pulled Arvin's sweater away. Then she turned to do the same for Jack, but Arvin's hands were just a bit quicker than hers.

It wasn't a shock when Arvin kissed Jack. Emily had known this would happen – hadn't she? It wasn't as if any of them were experienced at this, but she'd thought, well, three in a bed, it wouldn't all be about her. And it was sexier than she'd thought, watching Arvin kiss someone else, even watching him kiss a man; the fact that Jack was so unsure of what he was doing, yet so intent upon doing it, only heightened her arousal.

Yet when she watched them together, Emily knew for the first time why she was doing this. It wasn't for Jack; it wasn't for her.

This was for Arvin.

Emily didn't understand why her husband wanted this; she only knew that he did, and that he had for a very long time. Because she loved him, she would give him this. That was enough to silence her questions and her doubts, enough to let Emily give in to sensation and leave reason behind.

The rest of their night together was simple, really – Emily devoted herself to them both and demanded their devotion in return. It felt good, and they were happy, and she refused to analyze it more than that.

Jack's tongue made one swirl around her navel, and Emily tensed, not in passion but in fear; she didn't want him to see the stretch marks. She didn't think he would ask questions now – but later, what about later? But as he kept kissing his way downward, she breathed out in relief, and then gasped as he slid his tongue inside her, warm and wet.

Only twice did she awaken from the haze she'd surrendered to. When Jack entered her for the first time, Emily cried out – she hadn't expected it to be different, and it was, not so very much but enough – and something in her mind whispered _this is real, this is real._ Laura's memory flickered in her mind, and for a moment Jack's dead wife was more present in the room even than Arvin. But then Jack had kissed her again, and Emily gave in to the moment.

The second time was when Arvin came in Jack's hands, gripping his shoulders, lying beneath him like a woman might, like Emily had. When Arvin bit his lip and grimaced, the expression Emily knew so well, she felt all at once as if something had been stolen from her – something she'd never meant to let get away.

But those moments passed quickly.

As 2 a.m. slipped into the past, Emily lay on her belly in bed, looking at Jack asleep (or passed out) next to her. Arvin was on the other side. She didn't like the feeling that Jack was between them, even though she liked the idea of Jack being so close.

If she had to choose, though, she would always choose to be near her husband.

Emily closed her eyes and let the anxiety slip away from her, as quickly as it had come. Jack had known warmth and comfort for one night; she and Arvin had shared something intimate, something that they both knew was a gift from her to him. It would tie them even more tightly together from this night on, and besides – they could try almost anything once. Their marriage was more than strong enough for that, as long as --

\-- it only happened once.

**

_Before_

 

"I've been thinking – we should have Jack over tomorrow night."

Arvin spoke as his wife was lighting a cream-colored candle; she liked to have a few burning each night. Atmosphere, she said. "What was that about Jack?"

"We should have him over tomorrow. See if he can't find a sitter for Sydney, something like that."

Emily opened her mouth to ask why, but he saw understanding begin to sink in. "My God. Laura – it's the anniversary, isn't it?"

Arvin remembered the night vividly. He had been working late, doing follow-up reports for a mission gone wrong in Eritrea, when Devlin called to tell him Jack Bristow's wife had died in a car accident. For one split second, even before he could pity his friend, Arvin had been overwhelmed by a single emotion: relief.

_It's over. Jack never has to know. _

Then Devlin continued speaking, saying that Laura's accident involved suspicious circumstances and that an FBI agent had died too, and a thousand old doubts and questions welled up to push the relief far away.

Someday, perhaps, Jack would need to learn some slivers of the truths they'd later discovered, but Arvin was determined it would never come from him. The sweet liberty of thinking that woman dead had been stolen from Arvin too soon. Keeping the truth from his friend was one of the few ways Arvin still had of protecting him.

Emily brought Arvin back to the here and now – back to her – by whispering, "It seems like so much longer than a year."

Wordlessly, he let one arm rest along the top of the sofa; she curled up in the place he had created for her, head against his shoulder. Her memories of Italy, and the loss they had shared there, were still much with her. Though Arvin's grief for Jacquelyn no longer ruled him, he understood Emily's mourning.

How he longed to show her the true scope of the universe, the wonders that lay all around them – the way that earthly cares faded into their proper colorlessness when compared with Rambaldi's genius. Arvin's mind had been, for some months now, as busy and shining as the gears of a clock: ticking, thinking, discerning. It was not that he had forgotten their lost daughter, because he hadn't and never would. But, fortified by the greater perspective given him by his studies of Rambaldi, Arvin remained able to consider such past wounds and problems; he could keep ruminating upon them until new connections and solutions became clear.

Emily didn't have that gift. When she confronted pain this deep, she shut the door on it, once and forever. It was perhaps the only way in which she and Jack were exactly alike, Arvin thought.

"We shouldn't let him be alone," Emily murmured. It was easier for her to consider Jack's pain than her own; Arvin had known that nothing could distract her as completely as asking her to care for another. "Yes, invite him. We've seen too little of him, since we got back."

"I agree." Arvin kissed her golden hair; her curls smelled of lavender, of springtime. "I've missed Jack."

Did Emily understand how much he was confessing to her now? He'd have to see.

"I know that you have." Her voice was drowsy, though he could tell that she was not losing interest, but was instead deep in thought. "I could tell."

"Maybe you missed him too." It was a very different statement, for all that it sounded the same.

She shrugged with one shoulder, a momentary rise against his palm. "I've been too wrapped up in – in my own problems – to miss anyone. I hate that."

Arvin cuddled her closer; his lips brushed her temple, and he suspected she could feel his smile against her skin. "You used to think about him a bit more often."

This earned him a swat on the arm, so gentle he barely felt it through his sweater. "Oh, stop."

"We both had fun with the idea."

"I remember."

Secure as he was in Emily's love, Arvin had been utterly unthreatened when he realized she had something of an attraction to Jack Bristow; he had jokingly asked her about it years ago, and in the same spirit, she had confessed it. For some months afterward, it had been a shared joke between them, complete with Arvin nudging Emily when Jack entered the room and mock-shamed glances from her in response. It was harmless – a crush, really, the kind of thing mature people had enough sense to laugh about.

It wasn't at all the kind of thing that ended up in cheap motels, or an alleyway behind an unfamiliar restaurant, or the back seat of Laura's car. Arvin imagined that back seat as it must have been almost one year ago: filling with cold water and mud, sinking down deep, past salvage.

There was an element of payment due in all of this.

The candle's light flickered, a few short regular pulses almost like a heartbeat, before smoothing again. Arvin, careful not to sound too careful, continued, "We really did have fun with the idea."

Emily shifted within his embrace, and he knew that she understood him at last. Part of their shared joke had been a sexual fantasy – well-scripted, with some unlikely lines from Jack designed more for amusement than arousal – of him joining them in bed. Yes, mostly it was a joke between husband and wife, but not entirely; Arvin knew that Emily's excitement during that fantasy was real.

They had always been good at communicating with few words. This was why he knew that Emily now realized that Arvin was considering making their fantasy a reality; the very fact that she had not risen from his embrace with a few brisk words about some errand meant that she was considering it too.

He stroked her hair and relaxed. Best, now, to think about something else. Above all, he needed to avoid pushing Emily into anything she didn't want. Instead he thought upon the Rambaldi sketches he'd studied earlier that day, imagined the strange backward slant of the master's writing.

The waiting was exhilarating, a bit like the pause between throwing dice and watching them tumble to your score.

Something in him told him that it was not too late to say that he'd been joking, or that he'd thought better of it; Emily would understand, and they'd move on. Natural human instinct, after all, to cleave to the status quo: Arvin understood his own weaknesses as well as those of others, and he understood the weaknesses of others very well indeed. Wouldn't it be better, safer, to content himself with the wealth he already had: Emily's love, Jack's friendship, the knowledge that his worst secrets sank to the bottom of that riverbed with "Laura" Bristow's car?

Instinct, no more. Arvin could have held his hand in a candle's flame, if he had cause to. He could wait out his nervousness for this. The time had passed when he could ever content himself with what he'd had before.

To do that was to look back at a small, sad grave – one he'd left behind in another country, half a world away.

Emily's voice was small as she said, "He's been so lonely."

"Yes."

"He needs someone."

"Yes." He brushed his fingertips along her arm, stroking to soothe.

"But nobody who'd ask too much of him – ask anything of him, really, the way he is now."

"Precisely."

"I don't know."

The only response to that was a hug, then a kiss. She needed time, and he could give her that. It felt like a gift, in a way.

Arvin had never been wholly honest with Emily; total honesty was not something husbands in the CIA got to share with their wives. Jack had once believed differently and had learned otherwise during six months in solitary confinement. This was different, though, and he knew it. For once, he was willing not to quantify every emotion down to its slightest nuance. He would, just in this, try Emily's approach and trust in the moment.

Emily sat upright and looked at him. "I just don't – well – how do you suggest such a thing?"

"Let it flow from the moment. If it doesn't, then it's not meant to be." But it would. Arvin knew that it would. "You're sure?"

"Not exactly. But – we could try. Just see."

They kissed again, more deeply this time. That night, he thought, he would take her to bed and show her in a hundred small ways how treasured she was, how perfect, how safe. Arvin would give her courage, and that courage would carry them both where they wanted to go.

Would it be enough for Jack?

Arvin believed that it could be, as long as Jack finally understood. Despite the depth of their friendship, there had always been a distance between them that Arvin could not close; sometimes he thought the affair with Jack's wife had been no more than an attempt to learn what she knew about her husband. Other times, when he was less charitable with himself, Arvin instead suspected that he had acted only to damage Jack's relationship with his wife. If Arvin couldn't truly deserve Jack's devotion, then no one would.

Of course, there had actually been no relationship to damage. Arvin took little pleasure in remembering anything to do with "Irina Derevko," but he found some satisfaction in knowing that at least what he had with Jack – for all its imperfections and dishonesties – was real.

The candlelight made Emily's hair burnished gold, and Arvin bundled her close. She whispered, "It feels like so many things are ending."

"And we're getting a new beginning."

"Yes," Emily answered; Arvin knew she didn't really believe that, not yet. But she would.

When he walked into the office the next morning, Arvin was unsurprised to find Jack already at his desk. Work through the pain: That was the way Jack so often tried to handle things. As anybody who'd watched Jack during the past few months could tell, he wasn't actually handling things very well at all.

"Dinner," Arvin said.

Jack breathed out, a sound that from anyone else would've been a sigh. Only someone who knew him as Arvin did would have been able to detect the depth of relief in that one breath. Not being direct about this anniversary or what Jack was going through – it was a kindness Arvin could pay him, one Jack wouldn't have the chance to refuse. "When?"

"Tonight. Get a sitter for Sydney, why don't you? We bought a bottle of Sauternes – thought we'd make a late night of it."

"Sydney's going to a slumber party." The information seemed to be something Jack had retrieved from a very great distance. He shook his head slightly and said, "I don't know. I was looking forward to –"

_to getting drunk in your own home. Not this time, my friend. _

"—to having some space."

"If you need space so badly, let Emily and me baby-sit Sydney later on this weekend. Come have dinner with us tonight." Jack still looked unconvinced, so Arvin played dirty. "Emily's got her heart set on it."

Jack didn't look encouraged. But he surrendered with reasonably good grace. "Anything for Emily."

"All right." Arvin considered putting a hand on Jack's shoulder, but decided against it. The only support Jack could ever accept was the kind offered invisibly. He walked away and gave his friend the courtesy of pretending that nothing was wrong.

Anticipation thrummed in Arvin's veins now, but not for the lovemaking that might follow later that night – at least, not wholly for that. At last, he would understand something about Jack and maybe, finally, make Jack understand the most important thing about Arvin. The hated distance between them might finally begin to close.

That wouldn't happen in one night, of course. It was a lifetime's work, and Arvin was willing to take his time. No matter what did or didn't happen between him and Jack this evening or in the weeks, months and years to come, Arvin would still be working silently to bridge that gap.

_Our connection won't be built tonight_, Arvin reminded himself. _ It has been happening as long as you've known Jack._

_It will always be happening. _

**

 

THE END


End file.
